


Sun Will Set

by Pholo



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4396964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Break suffers some serious whump while Oz and the gang are off in Carillion (chapter 45). Cue Reim to the rescue. Title taken from the Zoë Keating song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun Will Set

“Xerx? I brought some files.”

Reim waits for a while outside the door, unsure how to proceed. His hands are full of folders-–Reim's not about to sign off on Break’s paperwork before he’s been read the latest procedural changes–but when he gets no response Reim relents. He can make a second trip. Reim kneels to set the folders on the ground, and pushes open the door. “Coming in.”

Break lies curled under a bundle of blankets on the bed. He doesn’t move to acknowledge Reim’s presence; this concerns Reim, given his sleep habits (or lackthereof). Even when Break does catch some shut-eye, he only ever tiger-naps; a single noise within a two-mile radius will set him off like a shot. Reim’s actually been careful to make more sound than usual today, given Break’s blindness. And yet he hasn’t stirred.

“Xerx,” Reim says again, this time with an edge to his tone. “Are you even under all that?” At his bedside now, Reim begins to pick through the pieces of fabric that constitute Break’s frumpy form; he plies away one last sheet and unearths a face. “Afternoon.”

Break doesn’t respond. The muscles of his neck and shoulders spasm when he curls back against his comforter. His face has gone grey, his eye squeezed shut. Reim feels his head go fuzzy; Break looks on the verge of death. He reaches out to grasp Break’s shoulder, then his forehead when Break shudders away from the touch.

“God, Xerx,” Reim says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He needs Break to feed him a one-liner, but Break doesn't  even seem to know he's there. Reim withdraws his palm to comb away more blankets. Beneath the sheets Break looks as whole as ever–-or, as whole as he'll ever be-–but his muscles are taut with stress. Helplessly, Reim snaps back up to Break’s face. He cups his hands to his cheeks and says, as sternly as his throat will allow, “Xerxes. Look at me.”

Break’s eye lulls to one side, then travels up Reim’s face; he uncoils his hand from his torso and says, “Reim?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Where are you hurting?”

“My chest.” Break grounds out a thick noise, full of hurt and recycled air, and Reim feels his heart tighten against his ribcage. “I can’t–-I can’t breathe.”

“Okay. Okay, Xerx, I’ll be right back–-I’m going to go fetch a doctor, all right?”

“Reim-–”

“I’ll be right back.” Reim repeats this line like an order, and then he flees the room.

Reim’s lucky enough to come across a maid on the second floor. He would scout out someone he knew, but trust is a luxury Reim can’t afford right now. With Break’s life on the line, time took precedent. “Renee,” Reim says, and the girl looks up from her work. “I need you to phone a doctor, understand? Get one here as soon as possible.”

The girl hikes up her skirts. “A--all right,” she says. She looks over Reim’s shoulder, back at the stairwell he emerged from. “Where shall I send them? Which room?”

“Second floor bathroom.” Reim doesn’t stick around for further questions-–he whips around and starts back for the stairs.

The Rainsworth bathrooms are spacious, warm-colored, and marble-floored: Reim hasn’t come for the scenery, though. He makes a dive for the bath tub, twists on the hot water as high as the faucet allows, and lets the water run. Then, shoes a-clack on the floor tiles, he rushes back to Break’s room. He doesn’t think to be winded.

By the time he passes the door, Break has managed to stretch out over the bed. He looks like he tried to rearrange the sheets but gave up halfway. As Reim enters the room, one hazy eye finds his face. “You came back,” Break says, not entirely cognizant. Reim has the mind to grunt out an “of course” as he guides the man out of bed. “‘M right here, Xerx."

“Can’t–-don’t think I can walk.”

“That’s fine.”

Reim draws Break close. He remembers to drape a sheet over his shoulder, and then he tows the two of them out the door.

Break’s a master at the stoicism game, even now. He refuses to cry out, though Reim can feel his chest seize up as they stumble. Reim bundles him up under his arm; he feels Break’s breath hitch against his neck, faint and raspy, and Reim’s hands convulse around the fabric of his nightshirt. “You’re gonna’ be all right, Xerx,” he says, because he can’t bear to face the alternative. "Hang on for a bit longer..."

They reach the bathroom, and Reim can afford to loosen his grip on Xerxes long enough to turn the door handle. He maneuvers them both over the threshold, Xerxes slumped against his torso, and kicks the door closed behind them.

The gush of hot water has kicked up some steam. Gently, Reim pries Break from his grasp; he unwinds the blanket about his shoulders and spreads Break out on the floor. Poised like this, with his back to the sheet and the room wet like a sauna, some air should reach Break's lungs. Conscious of the heat, Reim sheds his coat: He scoots over to Break’s head, wads up the fabric, and produces a makeshift pillow. He places the bundle between his crossed legs, then brings Break’s head up to rest on his lap. As before, Break’s eye opens; almost on their own accord, Reim feels the fingers of his left hand settle on Break’s forehead. He can feel Break beneath him as he trembles still from some unknown ailment, and Reim’s stomach knots up. He bends his head. Reim’s fingers travel up and down Break’s face, his neck. He finds Break's hands and clutches them, massages the digits. Break stares up at him with that one wine-red eye. He focuses on Reim like he’s his last anchor to reality. And then there’s another bout of pain, and he clutches at Reim’s fingers until Reim thinks they’ll come apart under his grasp. Break exhales, and the noise catches against his throat. Reim shushes him, dips his head to brush some stray strands of hair from his face. He can’t die now; not with Sharon gone. He’s not ready. “Hey,” Reim says, and he has to speak slowly to force actual words out of his mouth. “Don’t you dare give up on me now, Xerxes Break. Not today.”

Break, damn him, grins under his fingers. They’re so close that Reim feels his huff of breath as Break opens his mouth. “Reim–” he says, but Reim cuts him off;

“No.” No goodbyes. “Don’t–-you shouldn’t talk. Focus on breathing. Just look at me and breathe, all right?”

And Break does. He stares up at Reim’s face, and Reim kneads the muscles of his chest under his hands. And he sits, and he prays, and he waits.

Slowly, Break’s tremors begin to recede. His breath, though pained, become less ragged, and his pulse kicks up. Reim has let the water run for a good hour now, but he doesn’t care. Whatever keeps Break here, alive, under his hands, he will use and abuse without question.

A few beads of moisture trickle down the wall and settle on the floor. The doctor arrives at last, right as Break’s eye slips closed.

 

Break sleeps like a rock. Reim watches him, sprawled out on a chair next to his bed, unsure how to react now that the danger’s passed. His body refuses to calm, his muscles to unclench. The doctor crafts up a to-do list for an awake-Break of the near future (some physical therapy; recipes for honey-thick teas) and sends for a collection of pills and syrups Reim knows Break won’t take. The doctor treats Reim like Break’s caretaker. He tells Reim to call tomorrow–-Reim promises he will–-and asks that he keep Break up-to-date with his prescriptions–-Reim says he’ll do his best–-and then, almost as soon as he’s arrived, he’s gone. Off to another patient; to another house on another plot of land where monsters don’t exist.

Reim watches Break’s chest rise and fall. He knows there are many things he can’t control, but at that moment Reim makes a vow: He will die before he lets Break use Mad Hatter again.

 

Break wakes up at around eleven that night. Reim looks on from his chair as Break’s eye snaps open. Break reaches up, then tangles his fingers against the sheets of his bed. He’s clearly addled. Reim coughs at him, and Break looks up; he squints his eye at Reim, as though to make sure he’s real, then falls back against the bed with a soft “phloof” of cushions.

“Not dead, then,” he says.

Reim closes his book. Break’s voice sounds husky, weak, but the snarky lilt's back. “You’re lucky I found you when I did.”

Break only pish-poshes. “I knew you’d come. I have your schedule down to the notch, mother hen.”

That voice comes back to him, thin as Break shook under his palms: _You came back._

“You were delirious with pain, Xerx,” Reim says. “You couldn’t have known I’d come to check on you. And there were enough blankets on top of you to suffocate a small elephant.”

“I would've been fine.”

“Sure.”

“And I stand by what I said before: There’s no need to worry. Give me another day and I’ll be good as new.”

In that moment Reim doesn’t know which he’d rather do: Hug Break or punch him. There’s only so much time they have left to waste, and since Reim doesn’t plan to spend another moment on hissy fits and bland banter-–and because he can’t stand to pretend like this for one more second–-he closes the gap between Break and the chair rigged up by his bedside. Their lips meet, and Reim does his best not to linger as he laces his fingers through Break’s hair.

The seconds drag on. Break tastes like sickness and silver needle tea. Reim pulls away, point made. He sits on the edge of his chair, quiet as Break opens the eye Reim didn’t realize he’d closed.

Then, slowly, Break smiles.

Reim waits to be teased-–for his kiss to be picked apart by Break’s sharp tongue. But Break only reaches out with delicate fingers. His hand finds Reim’s jawline, and there’s that look again like Reim’s his whole world, except this time he’s not an anchor but a universe unto himself.

Reim dares to place his hand atop Break’s. His fingers are warm and calloused.

“May I-–I’d like to sleep here tonight. Next to you.” To make sure you're alive. Reim doesn’t ever think he’s been this honest before–-not about what he wants.

Break chortles at him.

“I don't see why not.”

**Author's Note:**

> Certain letters of the alphabet don't appeal to me (I have OCD), so writing can be very difficult (╯ФДФ)╯ ︵ ┻━┻ I may have found a loophole around my compulsions, though, because I went out yesterday with a notebook and pen and came back a couple hours later with a story on the verge of completion; I hadn't done that since the late middle ages lol. Note to self: Hand-write your stories. It helps somehow. 
> 
> (Also he'd "die before he lets Break use Mad Hatter again" hehe yoU GET IT BECAUSE HE DOES DIE AT YURA'S BEFORE--yeah okay I'll shut up)


End file.
